


Just His Type

by alltheshinywords



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-07 00:17:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11611968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheshinywords/pseuds/alltheshinywords
Summary: Summary: Sansa sees off Tormund as he heads to Eastwatch, and tries to give him some advice on Brienne’s romantic history. Then Tormund returns the favor. AKA Littlefinger ain’t the only one noticing those Starkcest vibes.





	Just His Type

“Not too late for a kiss goodbye.”

Sansa and Brienne, who were passing through the courtyard on their way to the great hall, both turned to see a grinning Tormund a pace away, holding his horse by the lead. His blue eyes were bright with unadulterated hope; he really was smitten with the tall blonde, Sansa noted, and she had to bite back her own smile.

The feeling did not seem to be mutual, however. As always, Brienne stiffened in response to Tormund’s overtures, her normally kind, open face closing off completely. To see such a strong, capable woman so awkward and uncertain in the presence of an admirer was endearing, and made the infallibly noble Brienne seem a little more human, though Sansa somehow doubted she would see it that way. 

Undeterred, Tormund pressed on. “What? Not even a farewell? I could be riding to my death.”

Brienne did not meet his gaze, though she did begrudgingly offer, “Good fortune to you, ser.”

If Brienne had been looking at Tormund, she might have seen the joy that flashed across his face at even those sparse words. It might have even softened her resistance, a little. But she was not looking, and feeling a tinge of sympathy for the wildling, Sansa added, “Come back to us as soon as you’re able, Tormund. You will be sorely missed.”

At this, Brienne at last did look up to Tormund, to see him reacting to Sansa’s words as if Brienne herself had spoken them—eyes as bright as his hair and grin gleaming underneath his beard. Grimacing, she made a sort of grunting noise and abruptly walked away. 

Sansa and Tormund watched after her, the latter shaking his head and whistling. “What a woman.”

“She is one of the best of them,” Sansa agreed.

“The kind you could climb just as easily as she could climb you. And oh, what a view from the top of her peak.”

Once, Sansa might have been terribly scandalized by words like these. Now she could barely suppress a snort of laughter. “Well. She is very...tall.”

She thought they might leave it at that; this was probably the longest she had conversed with Tormund, one-on-one, and probably for good reason. Though she bore him no ill will, and had meant what she said about his safe return, there wasn’t much that a wildling warrior and the Lady of Winterfell had in common, White Walkers and other common enemies aside.

So it surprised her when Tormund turned to her, blue eyes penetrating, as he motioned after Brienne with a jerk of his head. “What sort of lover does she take?”

For a moment, Sansa could only stare at him blankly. “Lover?” She shook her head. “I don’t...”

Tormund cut her off impatiently. “What type warms her bed, and her loins?”

Perhaps Sansa had been too rash earlier; she might still be vaguely scandalized by something like this. Aware of the faint burning in her cheeks, she searched her mind. “Oh. Well... I know nothing as fact, only rumors.”

“Yes?” Tormund prompted eagerly.

“There was Renly Baratheon. She served on his kingsguard, and some said she was besotted with him.”

“And? What manner of man was he?” He grunted. “A warrior?”

Sansa frowned, trying to remember. She had been a girl the last time she laid eyes on Renly Baratheon, and it seemed like a lifetime ago, though a few vague impressions remained. “Handsome. Well-spoken.” She looked to Tormund apologetically. “Courtly.”

The grin faded from Tormund’s face. “Courtly,” he repeated as though it were a curse.

She tried to brighten her tone with encouragement. “And, dead now. Long dead.”

Tormund brooded on this a long moment. “Any others?”

Sansa had already begun to shake her head when a name popped into her mind. “Jaime Lannister. There were some in Kings Landing who said she was sweet on him.”

Tormund sounded almost afraid now. “And?”

“Handsome,” Sansa informed him, saying it matter-of-factly to take away some of the sting. “Well-spoken. Courtly.”

A grunt from Tormund, followed by a long stretch of silence. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders. “Who can say? Maybe after all this time thawing in the south, there'll be something courtly deep down.”

Sansa was about to respond when a movement above caught her eye. She looked up to see Jon standing on the battlements, watching them with no little curiosity. Clearly he, too, wondered what the Lady of Winterfell and a wildling warrior had to speak of for so long. Though his face did not change at all, she could see the question there all the same, and gave a nod of her head to let him know she was all right.

When she looked to Tormund again, his face wore a knowing expression. “Strong. Fierce. Passionate.”

She blinked at him in confusion. “Pardon?”

“The last woman who warmed his bed,” Tormund informed her, gesturing up toward Jon on the battlement.

Sansa’s eyes followed the movement—clumsily, at first, not following his meaning—and then, seeing Jon still looking down on them, widened with shock. She quickly looked away again, feeling the color drain from her face. “Jon has never taken a lover. He swore vows, in the Night’s Watch.”

“What good are vows next to the warmth of a woman?”

Sansa shook her head, still numb with disbelief. “You’re teasing me--”

But she stopped at the look on Tormund’s face—half-pitying, half-knowing. Much as she’d looked at him moments ago, she imagined.

“He never told you of Ygritte.” It was not a question, and Tormund did not wait for her reply. “When Jon Snow first came to the Free Folk, he pretended to turn his back on the Crows. That meant killing a man—and taking a wildling woman. Ygritte was her name.

“Mayhaps it was only to make a convincing turncoat in our eyes. He did betray her, in the end. But there was love there, I would wager. Elsewise there couldn’t be so much pain.”

Sansa hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until he finished speaking. It shouldn’t be surprising to her, she supposed. Jon was a man, not the boy she’d left behind at Winterfell all those years ago. Still, she’d never imagined there being a woman, someone to warm his bed. Someone he may have loved, may love still... It shouldn’t have been surprising. But still the thought of it twisted something deep in her.

Schooling her face, Sansa ventured, “What is she like?”

“Was,” Tormund corrected her, and Sansa didn’t know why she should feel such knee-sagging, breath-clutching relief at the word. “A warrior. Could be a real shard in the guts at times. Certainly not afraid to speak her mind, let Lord Snow know when he was wrong.”

He surprised her then by reaching out with his gloved hand, and touching the end of her braid. “Kissed by fire, was her hair.” He arched an eyebrow at her. “A little like—yours, some might say.”

And with that, he mounted his horse. Once astride the beast, Tormund looked up to Jon, nodded, and was gone.

Sansa stared after him for much longer than was needed, trying to calm her churning thoughts. At last when she could bear it no longer, she looked up to Jon, whose eyes were still upon her, curious but also darkened with concerned.

He had loved a woman once, Sansa now knew. She didn’t know why it should change anything, but it did. She didn’t know why she should feel so frightened by the knowledge, but she was.

Almost certainly, she could ask Jon and he would tell her all about it. Everything about this Ygritte, and what she had meant to him. But as curious as Sansa was to know, a part of her also knew she could not bear the hearing of it.

And whatever that meant, she could not bear the knowing of it, either.

She forced a smile now at Jon, though not quite meeting his gaze, before ducking her head and stepping under the battlements, out of his sight. He had told her once that they could not keep secrets from one another, not if they wanted to survive; but she feared that might be the only way, for the two of them—to keep some secrets, at least, as best they could.


End file.
